


your hand, my knife

by Caisar



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Armitage Hux Smokes, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, For a Given Value of Comfort, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Canon Compliant - Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Personal Favorite, Pining, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Sharing a Bed, That's Not How The Force Works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 12:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22969780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caisar/pseuds/Caisar
Summary: On the nights his skin feels stretched thin over his bones and the voices in his head sound truer than his own, Kylo comes to Hux for comfort. It will be the downfall of them both.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626937
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	your hand, my knife

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Nothing's Fair in Love and War_ by Three Days Grace.

On the nights his skin feels stretched thin over his bones and the voices in his head sound truer than his own, he wanders.

Technically, there’s no night on a ship. It’s all cycles this and shifts that, systems built strictly to make the well-oiled machine that is the First Order even more efficient. Even the layout is designed specifically to direct rotations through the routes where they would be most valuable, not a square inch left unmanned in any given moment.

Not a square inch to fucking breathe is what that truly means.

He doesn’t realize there was purpose in his stride until he finds himself at _that door_. Third time this week—Hux will revoke his access again. This time for good. His palms are already sweating in his gloves at the thought of being locked out here with half a dozen officers still mulling around, their consciousnesses threatening to seep in through the cracks of his failing mental barrier—

That’s absurd. He’s the Supreme Leader. He has nothing to fear from an _access panel_ ; he could blast it into a million pieces if he so wished.

Ripping his glove off, he presses a thumb on the panel. It beeps, blinking green once before the locks disengage with a hiss that hides his sigh.

Past the narrow entrance hiding the rooms from the immediate gaze, Hux is—

Hux is sprawled across that awful couch in his robe with a datapad in hand, petting a sleeping Millicent on his lap with his other, strands of damp hair framing his face. The sight is… _soft_ , almost, impossible to reconcile with the vicious, ruthless face of the First Order prowling the bridge. General Hux wouldn’t be caught dead looking halfway human, let alone _at home_.

Armitage might, though.

Unease rolls off Hux, a low wave that sends Kylo’s skin crawling. His fingers tingle with the need to soothe it away—he’s not here to leech off Hux’s comfort, only to find some of his own—but Hux would sooner throw him out than accept the peace offering. The marks around his neck, down his side that he wore like a _fuck you_ for weeks were proof enough.

Kylo hates everything. Especially himself.

Hux lowers the datapad and slowly sits up, keeping a hand on Millicent. “Supreme Leader,” he says smoothly, nothing in his tone betraying his anxiety. “Pardon my state of undress; I wasn’t expecting company at this hour.”

Of course he wasn’t. No one dares disturb the General for anything short of an emergency during his off time—no one but Kylo.

“Don’t call me that,” he rasps, heart high in his throat. “Not here.” He never comes here as the Supreme Leader. He doesn’t even _look_ supreme right now—in a single glove and the first clothes he’d found on his floor, cape forgotten in his hurry to get _out_ , he feels more like a giant shit stain on the pristine rugs.

Hux’s assessing glance says as much as he scans Kylo from head to toe, trying to pinpoint what broke him this time. “Very well,” he says with a small dip of his head. “Ghosts?”

“Yes,” Kylo lies. Ghosts. Demons. Nightmares. All good reasons to excuse away why his feet won’t stop carrying him here. Simple. Dismissible.

He’s worn them thin by now, though. Hux must not be looking closely to miss how see-through they’ve become. Maybe he stopped caring about it, for all he still asks; what does the reason matter when they all mean Kylo is here to ruin his night?

Releasing a put-upon sigh, Hux glances at his datapad like it pains him to part with it. “I used to get so much work done during rest cycles.”

The knot in his stomach unfolds. “Sorry.”

Hux only rolls his eyes, stretching to the side table to put the datapad away—nearly tips his caf over before Kylo steadies the half-full mug with the Force.

Millicent jerks her head up, tail and ears prickling up as she scans the area. Hux smiles at her—a warm, lopsided little thing that takes ten years out of him, a new gleam to his eyes. Kylo is struck by an image he’s never seen: Hux half-naked in his bed, blinking sleep out of soft, blue-green eyes, his lips curling into that sweet smile for Kylo.

Pathetic.

Scratching between Millicent’s ears, who settled on Kylo as the source of curiosity, “Stop staring and go get cleaned up,” Hux says, a note of amusement lingering in his tone. He turns to Kylo and it disappears. “I’ll be a moment.”

* * *

Cleaning up is the part Kylo dislikes the most.

He’s not a beast, like Hux likes to insinuate often; he knows how to clean himself—but Hux has him wash with scented soaps until his skin is red and his scalp is hurting before allowing him into the bed. Punishment for all that he’s done to Hux on Crait—or power play, Hux exerting his will where he’s allowed to.

 _Or maybe_ , whispers that voice at the back of his head, _he simply doesn’t want your smell on his sheets. He doesn’t want to remember that you’ve been there_.

The thought cuts deeper than it has any right to.

Once he’s up to Hux’s standards, he steps out and into his old clothes—on second thought, takes the shirt off again and hides it at the bottom of the hamper for a cleaning droid to find. Hux will have a fit when he finds it neatly folded among his uniforms.

Part of him hopes Hux has already fallen asleep, so that Kylo can skip to the comfort of lying next to someone already, but the energy in the dim space is too off for that. He follows it to the bedroom, where Hux is enjoying a cigarra on the steps leading down to the full-height viewport, the pretentious bastard. The smoke detectors overhead are conspicuously passive.

Watching Hux watch the galaxy out there is far from a new experience. Kylo has seen that particular shine of red against the backdrop of stars a thousand times by now; the novelty has long worn off. The weight in his chest, the aching desire to card his fingers through that silky hair and slip the shoulder of the robe just that much lower have no place between Hux and him.

None at all.

Too tired for more games, he drops his gloves on the dresser and gets into the bed without waiting for express permission, burying himself under the plush duvet. The shower wasn’t enough to stave off the chill in his bones, nor is the wasteful warmth of Hux’s rooms. Nor will the duvet be, but Hux makes no move to even acknowledge him, let alone join him, so it will have to do.

Sleep hasn’t been a part of Kylo’s nights for quite some time. He stopped expecting it to be, trying to be content with drifting on the edge long enough to keep his head during the day. Still, irritation spikes in him when he’s drawn back from his rest, Hux’s barely considerable weight shifting the mattress underneath.

“Oh, hush,” Hux says even though Kylo didn’t make a sound, sliding under the covers. He’s dressed again, in a dark shirt that looks too big on him and matching pants. Kylo is already missing the robe. “Turn around.”

Kylo faces the viewport and closes his eyes, his body already growing lax in anticipation. No matter his words, Hux’s touch is always gentle as he combs the strands falling on Kylo’s face away, the lingering reek of smoke on his fingers sharp enough to sting.

Kylo grimaces. “Did you have to smoke the entire pack?”

The grip in his hair tightens in warning, not enough to hurt. “Do you or do you not want this, Ren?”

Kylo presses closer in answer.

Confusion and surprise rise in Hux like dust kicked off the ground, leaving a bitter taste in Kylo’s mouth. So Kylo is needy tonight, big deal. He’s not about to apologize for it. Shouldn’t Hux be glad to have more to throw in his face?

Hux carefully, almost experimentally, runs his fingers over Kylo’s scalp, through his hair, down a shoulder blade—pulls away at the shiver that elicits. Shame spreads through him, sudden and burning. Hux’s hands never really warm up, no matter the temperature of his surroundings or how long he keeps them under hot water. Poor circulation. Can’t do even that right. Weak, thin, useless—

It’s not Kylo’s thought.

Heart hammering in his chest, Kylo rolls over. Startled, Hux scuttles away, fear flashing over his face before his expression shutters into a guarded mask. The shame that coats Kylo’s insides is all his own this time.

Doing his best to pitch his voice low and soothing, “Give me your hands,” Kylo asks, extending his own with the palms up. Trustful. Open.

Hux frowns, eyes flitting down at Kylo’s hands on the duvet. “What—”

“Your hands,” Kylo repeats, trying to hold onto the thin threads of patience he’s never had for anything. He has to comfort Hux—doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, but all his instincts are screaming at him to _do something_ and by stars, he will. “Please.”

He doesn’t need the Force to sense the mix of distrust and curiosity oozing out of Hux as Hux cautiously places his hands on Kylo’s, allowing him to take them under the covers. Kylo tucks them against his chest and starts rubbing Hux’s wrists, palms, each finger—moving back up.

There are easier ways to do this. He could use the Force to help redirect Hux’s blood flow, no touching necessary unless Hux wanted it. He won’t ask, though. The trust Hux is—has been—placing in him is still fragile, tentative; it wouldn’t do to risk it by stirring up bad memories.

Hux’s eyes are trained where he can’t see their hands under the duvet. “What are you doing?” he asks on a low, bemused laugh.

“Warming you up,” Kylo says simply, starting on Hux’s forearms under the sleeves. The skin is smoother here, not calloused or scarred like his palms or fingertips, save for where his blade usually sits. “I hear I’m a human furnace. Might as well put it to good use.”

“Right. Can’t let your security blanket become an ice block.”

A security blanket. That’s what Hux believes himself to be. A kriffing child’s kriffing comfort toy.

Which one of them does Hux intend to insult?

Either way, Kylo’s not going to rise to the bait. “Something like that,” he says, shrugging his free shoulder. Humor drains from Hux’s face.

He makes his way down from Hux’s elbows, following the long, angular marks with his thumbs—Hux takes his hands away before he can get to the wrists. Kylo lets him, feeling oddly emptied in his guts—robbed of something he doesn’t even own.

“That’s quite enough,” Hux bites out, pulling his sleeves down sharply. “Let’s put your good work to test, shall we?”

Kylo grudgingly turns again, not bothering with the duvet. The backs of Hux’s fingers are only marginally warmer, but Kylo manages to suppress the shiver this time as they slide down his nape, between his shoulder blades, to the middle of his back and back up—like soothing an agitated animal. Soon enough, his eyes are drooping low despite himself, tension he hadn’t realized he carried slipping from his shoulders, his forehead.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he mumbles, too boneless for more—stiffens again when his brain catches up to his mouth. Pillow talk. He’s trying to have pillow talk with Hux. As if Hux would ever tolerate that.

The hand has stilled on the curve of his spine. Kylo bites his tongue to keep from saying _never mind_. Hux might run this show, but he doesn’t call all the shots; Kylo can ask a stupid question without wanting to kick himself for it. He’s allowed to.

Hux takes a long breath, his touch caressing up Kylo’s body again. “Medbay,” he says on the exhale. Kylo wills himself into a statue, lest he do anything that makes Hux reconsider. “During my first years on the _Finalizer_ —before I made it into High Command—I often had… causes, for extended stays. I couldn’t fall asleep in such an exposed, accessible place, however, nor would I accept sleeping aid for fear that I might grow dependent on them. This was a… tolerable solution, at the time.”

Kylo’s head is buzzing. Why had Hux had to spend so much time in the medbay? Do any of the personnel at the time remain on board, so that he can reward them and then banish them to a backwater planet for having touched Hux so intimately? Does Hux ever think back on those nights when he can’t sleep and wish for someone to soothe him like that?

Might Hux ever consider Kylo for the task?

The questions are like beetles in his lungs, scratching at him to get out—Hux radiating anticipation and regret behind him. Before, Kylo would push on regardless, stealing the answers from Hux’s mind if he has to, the urge to sate his curiosity winning over the risk of having Hux retreat back into his shell.

He doesn’t even remember when _before_ was.

Swallowing hard against the words trying to crawl up, “Thank you for telling me,” he whispers. Maybe, in some far, unlikely future, Hux will tell him the full story—willingly. Maybe Hux will _want_ to share things with him.

Until then, Kylo will hold his tongue.

* * *

He’s fallen asleep without intending to, he finds when he wakes up to an arm circling his waist and warm breath tickling his nape, Millicent at their feet.

He’s never felt safer in his entire life.

Closing his eyes, he allows himself to pretend, just for a bit. To imagine that this is just a regular morning in their shared quarters, nothing he hasn’t experienced before, nothing out of the ordinary. That Hux won’t be displeased to see Kylo has lingered past his welcome.

The alarm blaring from the side table shatters the dream.

For all his no-nonsense efficiency in everything, Hux wakes up slowly. Kylo can feel every shift against his back as Hux’s body resists wakefulness—sends a prayer to every deity he can think of that Hux can’t feel his heartbeat in return, evening out his breathing to feign deep sleep.

Hux’s whole body stiffens against his, that chalk-dust feeling rising again.

Instead of jerking back in horror, Hux pauses as he takes in the situation, the gears in his head turning almost audibly. He’s probably making _that_ face, with the pinched mouth and lines cutting across his forehead. Kylo’s memorized it over countless simulations and battle plans, strategy meetings he only attended to appease the General.

Hux tends to radiate murderous intent by the end of those, though, not—not fucking _contentment_.

The thought sinks into his stomach like a hot stone.

The temptation to look into Hux’s mind and see for himself is overwhelming. He must be wrong. There’s no other explanation; he must be reading things wrong or—or the Force must have anchored on someone else passing in the hallway, in other quarters—hell, _Millicent_. Hux isn’t _capable_ of feeling anything but contempt and dissatisfaction.

A thumb brushes against Kylo’s stomach and his heart skips a beat.

Hux pulls away. The alarm shuts off a moment later, followed by the refresher door.

Kylo rolls onto his back as if pulled in by gravity, staring at the ceiling. The room looks exactly the same as last night. As it should. He’s the one thrown off-kilter between then and now—the one with stupid, dangerous desires that will only see him dethroned, if not killed. The one that gets undone by a stray brush of skin.

Swallowing against the lump at the base of his throat, he pushes himself up and out of the bed, reaching for his boots in the corner. He doesn’t know what Hux’s morning routine entails, but Hux must want some alone time for it, to put on his uniform and his general face and the stick up his ass. Kylo’s already pushing his luck; he should leave before Hux comes back and kicks him out.

Hux appears before Kylo can get to the second boot. Kylo keeps his eyes on the task, not eager to face the General’s displeasure full-on.

Pausing in the doorway, “Oh,” Hux says mildly. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, trying to tug the boot up. He should’ve just used the Force and be done with it, but that would have woken Millicent up again. “I was just leaving.”

“Don’t.”

Kylo looks up sharply enough to hurt his neck—catches only a flash of Hux’s expression before Hux moves briskly past to the closet. Nothing but rows and rows of regulation clothing, jackets hanging without a speck of dust visible on them.

“Everyone is already awake,” Hux points out as he pulls out his clothes. “You will only raise heads in your… current state. My job is difficult enough without having to snuff out rumors that I’m fucking you for my position.”

Right. This is where they stand: Supreme Leader and his devious pet general. General Hux and the attack dog he’s trying to keep on a leash. Two monsters vying for power—nothing more, nothing less.

Kylo would do well to remember that.

Hux glances over his shoulder with the stack of clothes in his hands, raising a brow. “Some privacy, if you will.”

“Yeah.” Kylo nods, already picking up his gloves and the boot he’s knocked over. “Sure, of course.”

Hux watches as Kylo limps back into the main area to wait out the morning crowd, closing the door behind Kylo. All surfaces are cleared out of anything remotely personal again, the robe nowhere to be seen. If it weren’t for that ice blue couch, Kylo could have been in anyone’s rooms.

The door opens again. “And Ren?”

Kylo turns, almost tripping over his feet in his hurry.

“I’m keeping my end of the bargain,” General Hux says, nodding at the unmade bed. “Make sure to keep yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo, for the prompt: insomnia. (4/25 filled; find the full list [here](https://desynchimminent.tumblr.com/post/181821535129/received-my-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo-full).)
> 
> This has a hopeful ending in my head. Just so you know.


End file.
